Nouvelle Vie
by LitRaptor42
Summary: Postisland SKate. Kate was sent to jail after the rescue, while Sawyer went back to his life of conning. Oneshot of their brief encounter in a Paris airport.


When he first saw her, his first thought was _a bolt of lightning_. That's what it felt like: he wasn't sure if he was having a heart attack or if it was that thing the French talked about, _la coup de foudre_. He stood, frozen, hand white-knuckled on his briefcase. He'd wanted nothing but this moment since she'd been taken away in L.A. eight years ago… but the timing could have been better.

She was standing to his right, at the same counter he was standing at, her elbow literally six inches from his, tapping a carafe so little dots of cream splashed into her coffee: slowly, deliberately, almost excruciatingly, it seemed. From this close he could see the little squiggles the milk made as it spread into the java, and he felt paralyzed in shock and mild fear. How had he gotten this close without at least recognizing her? Of course, she'd dyed and curled her hair again, but that was no excuse: he'd seen her with several different hairstyles, and had in fact helped her with some of them, as she'd helped him with his own.

"_Excusez-moi, monsieur_," said the cashier, a little louder. "_Qu'est-ce que vous vouliez_?"

Startled, Sawyer snapped back to what was going on, and realized that other customers were staring at him: the cashier had repeated the question twice already. "Uh, _seulement un grand café,s'il vous plait_. _Dans cette tasse_." He pushed the aluminum traveling mug forward, and got out his wallet. As the cashier handed the mug back to someone else, Sawyer thought, concentrating, _Don't turn around, don't recognize my voice—don't even think about me until I'm ready, Freckles…_ He could see that her shoulders were tight under her blouse; had she heard him, or was she just tense?

The cashier handed him the change from his ten-euro bill. Forcing calm upon himself, Sawyer took his coffee and stepped around her, strolling over to a table. He sat down, pulled out a newspaper, and finally, very casually, looked over at her again.

She hadn't even looked up at him. Her head was down, staring into her coffee; but the milk carafe was down, her fingers still around the handle. That face. He'd dreamed about it so often, and mercifully it hadn't changed even a bit. The razor-thin cheekbones, the hair that kept falling over her right eye (that never changed, whether she had a bob, bangs, or long waves), the little upward sweep at the tip of her nose. He felt like a lovesick kid, staring at her like this, but she was mesmerizing. Mesmerized, too, evidently: her eyes gazed down into the coffee cup as if she were reading tea leaves in it. Probably she was thinking about her husband, boyfriend, someone; his stomach wrenched. He didn't care if she was married—on the island she had confessed that she'd left a husband behind. No, it was the idea of her being _emotionally_ attached to another man that bothered him. Why that bothered him, he couldn't yet tell: but it did.

Sawyer turned back to his paper, trying to force his mind away from her. God, this was so unlike him, panicking and hiding… it was like he was a little boy with a crush. And why was he worried? She knew him too well to give him away. He took a deep, sighing breath, letting it out slowly. He should probably just go over to her and very calmly say, "Hello, Kate."

* * *

Where in God's name had he come from? One minute she was standing in the coffee line, and when she turned her back to go get milk and sugar, he—of all the people in the world least likely to be found in France—was standing there buying his own coffee. She hadn't seen him yet, and he had only spoken in French, but she knew perfectly well it was him—his Alabama accent gave him away as much as his cologne, the same cheap American scent he'd worn in court. The odds against this entire encounter were astronomical, since they'd parted inside a courtroom in L.A., were now in the international concourse in a Paris airport, and hadn't had any communication for six years or more. Why the hell was he _here_?

She herself was on her way home—finally free to see her mother, for the first time in… how long was it? Ten years? Kate was always astonished to think of how long she'd been on the run, taking a different name and hair color every three weeks, living with strangers, always running from the FBI or the American state cops or somebody equally incompetent. She'd been free after that, on the island, when no one really knew who she was, particularly at first… but freedom came at the price of living in a tropical jungle in the middle of summer. When they were rescued, she'd been arrested and convicted, sent off to jail. Sawyer had come to court every day—so had Jack, Juliet, and Claire, but Kate had been slightly less than surprised when they vanished after the trial ended. _He_ had even had the audacity to show up during visiting hours, in jeans and a t-shirt. She'd made him leave and promise not to come back, of course…

Her mind wandered back to her relationships on the island. There was really nothing to be said about her initial relationship with many of the survivors: tolerant indifference was the name of the game when you were struggling to survive. But not Sawyer and Jack. They had been different. Jack was her rock, the place she'd gone to when she knew who to trust; Sawyer was more like a fascination, someone you liked to watch but never to touch. At first she was a big girl, more so than most of the survivors. But then relationships became tense, as responsibilities started to filter in, and groups segmented off: everyone needed more comfort, and Kate was no different. She was fairly convinced that her relationship with Sawyer had been based on the fact that fighting was more fun than indifference: she was never sure whether his intimated violence was ever true, or if he was just an old grandmother inside, a turtledove pretending to be an eagle. By the time she'd truly realized his personality, it was too late: she was in handcuffs behind a scuffed table, staring at the business suits of the lawyers.

Now she was going home, finally completely free: she'd paid her old dues for eight years, and if she changed her name and her hair color, it was because she wanted to, not because the Feds might find her otherwise. She had no obligation to avoid her former co-criminals, and nothing to hide. Yet something was stopping her from just walking over to the man named James Ford and saying hello. What was it?

Her breathing accelerated, and she set down the carafe of milk, trying to get a grip on her emotions. _What the hell is wrong with you? You're a big girl now. Stop acting as if it's a big deal._ It didn't really make her feel any happier or less worried, but berating herself was a little strengthening—it made her feel like her fearless old iron conscience was back on the prowl.

He stepped around her, his sleeve lightly brushing the back of her bare arm, and Kate snuck a glance at him as he took a seat. He pulled out a Paris newspaper and began calmly reading; probably thinking about a pretty woman. He'd gone a bit grey at the temples, but otherwise everything about him was the same: the jaunty, jagged haircut, the half-smirk, the consummate five o'clock shadow. She remembered cutting that hair, the sight of those dimples by firelight, sharing kisses with the roughness of his beard against her cheek, and almost in shock Kate realized there were tears in her eyes.

Quickly she wiped them away, ashamed and angry at feeling so vulnerable. She wasn't some adolescent girl watching an ex-boyfriend, and theirs wasn't some pitiful break-up story: she'd never acknowledged love, much less said something as sickly sweet as "I love you." She took a deep breath, then exhaled. _You know,_ she thought_, this would be a lot easier if I just got it over with. So I can see him one more time, and see if he's changed._

Finally, she pried her fingers from the milk carafe, readjusted the shoulder strap of her purse, and walked around the line, over to his table.

* * *

Sawyer almost jumped out of his chair when she sat down across from him, putting her purse down casually, right on the table. "So," she said, very calmly, with a little smile. "Where are you from? I can tell you're an American."

Though hearing her voice again practically made his scars ache with memories, he answered smoothly, "Well, I'm from the South, sweetheart. Here on business. How about you?"

Her eyes flashed at him as she said, "All over," with that same little smile: it was familiar, the one that meant she was too excited to tell the truth. After a moment, she held out a hand. Her arms had changed; she was less muscular, more relaxed. But there were no rings on her fingers. "I'm Virginia Randall, from Surrey."

He shook the hand, marvelling at her composure, himself almost ready to burst out laughing at any moment. "Jacques Bregnant." He raised his mug. "Here's to travelling the day before Christmas, lucky sons-a-bitches that we are… Say, how'd you get into this mess?"

At that she burst out laughing, and her laughter was so irresistible that he had to laugh along with her. A couple of people looked over, but they couldn't see more than a happy couple, probably just sharing a special moment the day before the big holiday: maybe travelling together, maybe not. Maybe in love, maybe just friends.

Then her freckles started turning pale as she laughed, and Sawyer felt himself go hot and cold all at once: oh, dear God, he _had_ missed her. She leaned across the table. "_Jacques_?" she demanded in a whisper. "That's terrible, Sawyer. Of everybody on the planet, you're the one who looks and acts _least_ like a Jacques. The French must be insulted to think that you're pretending to be one of them, even if you _can_ speak French with a Cajun accent."

"Well, you ain't much of a Virginia from Surrey, either, _Kate_," he answered somewhat sulkily: but he couldn't resist grinning. "Been a while, hasn't it?"

"Yeah," she said, and her voice wavered. She looked back down at her hands. "I'm heading home for the holiday." She looked back up, and her eyes were unreadable: suddenly he saw that there were smudges from mascara just below her eyes, barely dried. He also noticed that she'd left her coffee sitting over on the counter. After a long pause, she said quietly, "Did you hear what I said? I'm going home—I'm out. I'm not playing the game anymore."

"I'll bet you ain't," he answered easily, mockingly, fiddling with his cufflinks. Then he realized she was staring at him. "What?"

"What about you?" she asked simply: but that short phrase was bitingly sarcastic.

"Well, between you an' me, Freckles, I really couldn't tell you that. But, if you gotta know…" He lowered his voice to a whisper and grinned again. "Why d'you think my name's Jacques right now?"

But she just looked at him, eyes suddenly sad. His elation faded, and he felt something he hadn't bothered with for quite some time: guilt. Things couldn't be like they were before. She had changed more that he had. Why not? He might be a stubborn ass just like before, but that didn't mean she still was.

* * *

When he'd come to visit two years after the trial, they'd gotten it over with, trying to force a moment of privacy despite the ragged-looking specimen at the next table, the cops standing subtly behind. That was the one time when they could both feel the guilt heavy on their shoulders: one of the prices paid for her lowered sentence was that they give the name of the man who killed Analucia and Libby. Sawyer—who still felt the sting of having been a complete failure as a character witness—hadn't hesitated at all, had just given them Michael's name; Kate had told him that after everything else, having been almost a year on the island, waiting for hurricanes to wipe them out, suffering indignities stronger than gunshot wounds, and dodging the Others, six or seven years in jail looked almost inviting.

"You promise me," she'd said tensely. "You promise me you won't try to contact me. You do your time, I'll do mine. When you leave here, get back to what you used to do, I don't care how, but you stay away from me. In ten years or so, I'll look you up."

He'd tried to protest, but her hands came down angrily upon his, her childish fingers biting into his wrists. "Sawyer! Listen to me. I got caught, and I damn well know that even if you and Jack helped out, they're putting the marshal's death square on my shoulders. And you know what I did, what they've got me in for." Then she'd hesitated, becoming serious. "I don't want to think about you while I'm in here, and I don't want you thinking about me. I know you haven't got a family to go back to, or anything, but when you leave, stay away until I find you. If that means forever… do it." He had hesitated, and as a guard started walking over to remind them of the time, she'd firmly kissed him, a fierce movement that was more of an attack than a sentimental expression. Of course the guard had interrupted them… but it had been enough.

She was watching through the window in the door, when she saw him for the last time. His head was down as he trudged toward the exit with the other visitors, face invisible behind the mat of blonde hair.

His cell phone rang, startling them both. "Sorry, Freckles, gotta take this," he sighed, and quickly flipped the phone open. She choked back a laugh at the image before her eyes: Sawyer, a successful businessman with a cell phone. "Bregnant."

"It's over—the deal's off. George is dead. A bus smashed into his car ten minutes ago, as he was driving out to meet you," said a breathless, hurried voice, and there was a panicked sniffle of tears. "Call me next month, please, Jacques?" And the line went dead. Sawyer stared at the phone for a minute, then slowly closed it and stowed it back in his suit pocket.

Kate raised an eyebrow, her stomach full of butterflies. "Bad news?"

He nodded. "My con… I was doin' a big deal with a New Yorker. One of those ones—you know, the suitcase full of money, the stocks-'n-bonds spiel, sleeping with the guy's pretty little wife. I was supposed to meet him right here, in about five minutes." He winced. "That was the pretty little wife, telling me the New Yorker just died." It seemed abrupt: too abrupt, in fact. His stomach did a slow roll. Well, whatever mess that was… he would find out eventually.

She herself didn't seem too horrified. It was highly likely she'd done less respectable acts in her day, and she knew what he was. "So you've got nowhere to go now."

All of a sudden, everything made sense to Sawyer. Nothing was connected, of course, and so the improbability of it all was staggering, but it made sense. He opened his mouth for a moment, then finally said, "You said you're goin' home?"

She looked away. Her cheeks flushed, but it was more relief than embarrassment she felt. "Yeah, I know, going home to see my mother for Christmas holiday. She moved off to England after… after what I did. I know, it sounds like a cheesy movie." Then she looked back at him, and her dark eyes were serious, more than they'd ever been since they first met. "But, Sawyer, I'm finally where I want to be. I'm… just tired of running. It makes me sick to think of doing something like before. I want to go home and sleep for a week, then go out and find myself a job. Laugh if you like, but that's what I'd like the most."

"Your mama will be proud of you, Freckles. You've taken responsibility for anything bad you ever did," he said quietly, surprising both of them. He hesitated a moment, then added, "Look, my deal's off, and it's the last one I'm ever gonna get into." He exhaled, trying to ignore the worry in the pit of his stomach, and asked, "Ms. Virginia Randall… can I go with you? Meet your mama, and tell her how much I love you, before we both go out looking for jobs?"

Her eyes, startled by his sudden gentleness, searched his for some sign of a joke. But he was very serious: there was no smile in his eyes. It was just then when she realized she might just still love him. She broke into a smile. "Yes. Yes, I believe you can, Sawyer."

They hesitated a minute, then leaned forward and kissed briefly, nothing sentimental or overly romantic, just enough to make the people at neighboring tables smile. But both had a brief moment to themselves to reflect, just before they started talking again: this quiet, ordinary peace between them was the last thing they'd ever expected so long ago, but it was the only thing they really wanted now.


End file.
